


Medically Recommended

by Project0506



Series: Soft Wars [85]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24286684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: You get used to suddenly-appearing trouble when you're a Torrent medic.  And if your General has a bad feeling about Rishi Moon, then you'd better prepare.
Series: Soft Wars [85]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775
Comments: 64
Kudos: 546





	Medically Recommended

There’s something just damn _right_ about knowing that, somewhere deep, there’s void under your boots.

For all that they were bred above water, _ vode _1 were built for the stars. Kix’s got satisfaction humming tenor in his bones to match the distant grumble of engines and tremble of floor grates. The med bay’s on the interior, so there’s no cold stretch of hull or yawn of portholes to make it all the more real. Kix thinks he might be about fixing to go find himself one.

He snaps off his gloves and dumps them in a hovering bin for destruction. It’s habit to slap his hands a couple of times and rub vigorously; gets rid of that powdery feeling he always gets after wearing plastex too long. Across the medbay, Stitches' head shoots up in panic at the noise. Kix makes sure his attention is perfectly elsewhere and his smile is perfectly genteel.

“Tapping out vod,” he calls. Stitches signs a furious ‘ _no wait_ ’ that’s just so easy to ignore. What _isn’t_ easy to ignore is _someone_ continuously attempting to aurebeshize Kix’s OTC cabinet in his own workspace. Kark standardization quite kindly, Kix knows how to find everything in his domain thanks.

Coric salutes him with his third caff of the shift. He’s slumped like a dead man against the front desk and if he’s true to form, he hasn’t opened his eyes since he’d slammed his way in yet. He’s very awake though, make no mistake. The caff isn’t for awareness. It’s a little bit to make him coherent. It’s also a lot a bit to keep him from murdering med staff and patients.

And would you look at the chrono, it’s about that time for Cpl Stitches to give the rundown after their last engagement. Such a shame Kix is nearly off shift.

He’d timed this right: he’s far closer to the front desk than Stitches. Kix is officially clocked out before the Cpl’s power-walk has even picked up.

“If he’s touched m’ stuff ’m gonna make ‘im cry,” Coric slurs in undertone. Kix nudges his fellow longunner’s shoulder in sympathy. Coric sways with it and sways right back, loose-limbed and hating everything about being upright.

Kix kind enough to refill his cup for him from the ominously glooping sludge in the carafe. If Kix was annoyed, he’s very sure the SSgt is very much not going to like what’s happened to _his_ workspace while he and Kix were dirtside. Things suddenly sprouted labels, it looked like from a quick glance. Cheerily color coded. “Kark.” Coric sighs. “Stitch, front and center!”

“Stitch _ **es**_ it’s _still_ Stitch _ **es**_ sir!”

Kix admires the lack of self preservation in that one. He’ll either go far or die first, even odds. Odds get worse though, the more often he fondles a man’s dispensary.

“Won’t count as a ‘cry’ if there’s no ‘chesty sobs’,” Kix mutters back. Kix’s SSgt grants him just the edge of a wolfish grin and flash of teeth.

“Just for you, LT.”

“Obliged.”

It feels like there’s a full tenday of atmo finally sloughing off his skin when the medbay doors swoop closed behind him. Bless the black, Kix would never leave if he’d had his druthers.

He sidesteps a clatter of vode piling out of medbay and off in search of food. Resolute’s got one of the best kitchens in the GAR. Almost makes up for all the trouble they find that has them missing meals too often for Kix’s liking.

That’s what he’ll do, he thinks. Hit the mess, find a rec deck and eat under the stars.

He gets six steps down D deck in the direction of the lifts before the vode ahead start ‘sir-ing’ and Kix gets that feeling that his quiet evening might be half gone sideways.

He and Coric have an agreement. Kix will be primary for any officers, and Coric won’t get strung up for murdering a superior. It works for them.

The clang of his boots against durasteel goes from a comforting, easy echo to an ominous knell and he marches forward to meet whatever trouble is coming around the last bend to the bay.

“Well hell sir,” Kix groans.

The Captain’s smile is small and genuine and his own brand of wry, but does little to ease the worried furrow between his eyebrows. What it does, however, is tell Kix there are plots afoot and not all of them are likely to be entirely sanctioned. General Skywalker trots behind him, distinctly un-bleeding though appearances can often be deceiving. Still, given that neither of them are glaring annoyed concern at the other it’s probably not an ‘unaddressed injury’ situation.

Torrent’s only been under General Skywalker for a handful of engagements, and already their leads cluck at each other the way everyone claims medics do.

“Got an opportunity for you, Lieutenant.”

Kix bids a fond goodbye for his dream of a hull-side seat under a porthole.

“Was such a nice day,” he grumbles but falls in step anyway. Kix first rotation was spec ops, and he would have spent the whole war there if Captain Rex hadn’t intervened. He knows how these ‘opportunities’ tend to go. “Am I assuming I’ve just gone on leave then?”

The Captain hums agreement. “You haven’t been back to Kamino in a while, have you? Any chance you’ve been planning on it?”

No, but Kix’s brain hadn’t needed to be strained out of the bottom sediment when they’d uncorked him. “Could be I might find a word or two to share on what the kark is going on with speedy platelet counts, sure.”

They slow, stop just far enough that the medbay doors don’t trigger open.

“Commander Cody of the 212th and I are assigned do an unannounced inspection of Rishi Station. Shipping out tomorrow morning. But-”

“I have a bad feeling about it.” The General’s face is mulish and determined. His stance is wide, shoulders set. Defensive. Ready to argue his position.

Kix might not have much with the whole Force business, but that’s not his job.

He nods at his commanding officers. “How big a squad can we bring?”

“The ship I’m assigned fits three and an astromech,” Captain Rex drawls and Kix curses.

They both ignore the General’s whooshed breath of relief. “‘A feeling’ isn’t enough to go off,” the General quotes with the edge of waspishness. “And it’s more important to have forces here ready for deployment. There’s ships on stand-by if the all-clear beacon goes down but…” He reaches up behind one ear but seems to falter when he doesn’t find anything there. The motors in his hand whir aimlessly. “I don’t know. I feel like it will be too late. And I don’t like just sending Rex.”

And Commander Cody. But then, the Commander isn’t Torrent. Kix can understand the feeling.

“So we’re uh… improvising.”

“The General has suddenly discovered an interest in learning more about possibly using Force Healing on clones,” Captain Rex interjects with the butter-smoothness of a consummate banthashitter. “To save resources, I can transport you both now and escort you both to Kamino after our inspection.” His grin is sharp. “I haven’t figured out why we’re leaving early yet, but I’m sure I’ll know before anyone thinks to ask.”

Kix groans and invokes all of his professionalism to avoid slapping a palm to his face. “You never bring me the nice, easy internal hemorrhaging multiple organ failure problems,” he gripes and both his superiors grin at him. “Twenty minutes. Vacations take a bit to pack for.”

Captain Rex catches his shoulder as he turns, tips him a step forward and taps their heads together.

He doesn’t have to say ‘thank you’. Kix snorts and taps back. “Get me into Jesse’s booze cache and I’ll call us square, sir.”

“Consider it already confiscated.”

The General watches them with interest, the way he does for nearly every vode interaction that Kix had always taken as normal. Kix has barely stepped away before he’s started questioning what that meant. The Captain has never hesitated to explain. Kix leaves them to it.

Jesse runs the spies in their little operation, but Kix runs the medics. Kix doesn’t think their Scout would argue that Kix is just a bit better positioned, when it comes to knowing things. Medics are, as a designation, entirely nosy.

They've also wired audio all the way down this hallway. It’s stunning, the number of vode who get most of the way to medbay and then try to talk themselves out of going.

He steps into his medbay to organized chaos.

“Your 15S is ready,” Coric says. “Another minute for a 15A.” It’s Del’s rifle, not Coric’s own in his hands. Coric’s partner uses a custom grip and scope and he’s professionally stripping them off to swap with standards from a spare carbine. “Zeer’s bringing your shell up. If there’s anything in your bunk that’s going to kill him, talk now.”

“Everything’s mostly survivable,” Kix assures and gets himself a round of chuckles.

“Field pack on the desk. Five minutes for surgical pack.”

“Stitches you are no longer My Least Favorite,” Kix replies. Kix had ravaged his pack near to lining in their last battle: a solid fifteen of those twenty minutes he needed would have been to resupply. “Come whinge at me when Coric makes you cry. I’ll promise to make sympathetic noises at appropriate intervals.”

“I spit in your dinner,” Stitches calls back. “So you’re aware.”

Dinner’s a foil pouch, set heating in the caff carafe with slits at the top to vent. Shipboard rations aren’t mess food, but they’re not bars either. Perfectly bland. If Stitches _did_ spit in it, it probably helped.

Kix liberates the two 17’s taped under the front desk and rifles behind the clean gowns for spare power cells. Well damn, who forgot to check the charge?

“Spares for 17’s,” he says and someone curses. “Standard. But if someone’s got a 17LR here I’ll need spares for that too.”

“Bed four,” Coric says and grunts as he snaps his scope in place. “Left side railing. Modded to use standard power.”

“Bless you vod.”

Glint dumps an armful of power cells on the front desk. Zeer skids in with a duffle rattling dully with plastoid. Coric snaps together a side-by-side harness to fit both long guns. Stitches wraps scalpels tight in polycotton bandages so they don’t rattle loose.

In twenty minutes, Kix is armored up and over his shell he wears both a hospital and an arsenal.

“Don’t die,” Stitches orders.

“If you die,” Coric corrects. “Take em all with you.”

“If I die,” Kix says and swings his guns cross-body under his pack. “I’m taking the whole damn moon. They’ll have to reroute the hyperlane around the debris field, and I expect you all to demand the bypass be named in my honor.” He grins at his men. “Make sure it has the words ‘glorious bastard’ in there somewhere, will you?”

Torrent Medical Corps cheers ‘ _ Oya _2'.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Brothers. Term clones use to refer to themselves. Back  
> 2\. General cheer. Lit. 'Let's Hunt!' Back  
> 


End file.
